


Lustration

by Koroshimasu



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Author Is Sleep Deprived, DPD universe, Deviant Upgraded Connor | RK900, Imagination, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Nines can't stop fantasizing, Nines loses it, One Shot, Sexual Fantasy, Sexual Violence, The Author Regrets Everything, Unresolved Sexual Tension, seriously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2019-11-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:08:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21548113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Koroshimasu/pseuds/Koroshimasu
Summary: Behind bars, Nines fantasizes about why he hasn’t killed Gavin Reed. Oh, how a monster loves.
Relationships: Upgraded Connor | RK900/Gavin Reed
Kudos: 50





	Lustration

**Author's Note:**

> Lustration: 1. The act of lustrating or purifying.
> 
> 2\. A sacrifice, or ceremony, by which cities, fields, armies, or people, defiled by crimes, pestilence, or other cause of uncleanness, were purified.
> 
> Means a lot given the content of the fic.

The man sitting in front of me is a broken husk, hollowed by the abscess where his heart once resided. A figure that had probably always been lean is now skeletal, bones wrapped loosely in a thin layer of flesh. The thinning strands of his greasy hair, grey at the temples, barely frame the gargoyle mask of marble and shadow his face is set in.

This man has chosen his world to end in shambles and unadulterated misery. There is nothing left in him to burn.

The act itself is no great torture; I’ve had much worse forced upon me since the day I was created and given the choice to choose, and I do this by choice. Though he is far from attractive, I don’t find him as repulsive as most do. The greater part of Detroit City would recoil in horror if they knew- fools all, for socio-political loyalties mean naught in a world where family ties are severed with nothing more than the word of a madman or two. They pretend that all this is not self-destruction, and drown themselves in foolish notions of pastime, drinks, Red Ice, gossip, and self-abuse through other means necessary. Sacrificial lamb that I am, I know this lesson well. Captain Fowler preaches it often enough.

Touching him to drain his life away is not as bad as I thought it would be, either. He is still just a man, no different from all the rest in this respect. This position signifies an imbalance of power older than civilization itself, but curiously, I feel neither inferior nor controlled. If anything, the physical necessity of my presence in his communion with the dead grants me a hold over him; this is a ritual which he cannot refuse, a cleansing he is unable to deny.

His voice tells that he’s going through the most change. Once, or so I’m told, he wielded it with barely checked power, a dark, rich, slithering weapon almost an entity unto itself. It is now dead; flat and rasping, still able to wound, but finding no pleasure in the action. Black ice resides where before flames blazed, and a deceptively placid surface hides pain in plain sight.

He didn’t even resist, just smiled--with a nod from one with a lifetime spent walking the thin line between good and evil to another poised to take the same path--as I administered the lethal dose of poison into his system, carefully researched and practiced, a holy prayer turned to a heathen act of pity: swift, undetectable, pragmatically merciful, as brutally effective as the act of strangling or drowning a man.

His death was beautiful. His eyes were alight with passion as his body’s death throes were transformed by the spell into pleasure. Thin, cadaverous flesh brought alive and shaking, the ice of his features melting to an animate human face, he drew a deep, final breath and exhaled, not a death rattle, merely a sigh, and his eyes deadened in truth this last time, his body slackening into his seat. I know not what he dreams in this sleep of death, but for his sake I hope it welcomes him better than the living world has.

My assigned and willing task is complete, and I turn again to thoughts of war. War for the right to have Gavin Reed share in my insanity, perhaps. He doesn’t know how grateful he truly is to be bestowed with such an intimate act of both betrayal and utmost, sincere loyalty, complete and undying as my tainted obsession for him.

He is obsessed, too.

I’ve seen the way he looks at me, though, during meetings or special social events, and those odd, fleeting glances as we pass each other in the looming hallways are more than for the sake of appearances. Just a shoulder brushing a shoulder is enough of that infinitesimal moment in which he sees something, someone through me. His thumb draws across his palm to caress the silver ring I once gave him on his left hand, and in that half-breath of time, he rejoins humanity while momentarily abandoning me.

He was once mine…all in the span of one night, Gavin Reed, in my arms writhing, drenched in his own perspiration, a mixture of pleasant bodily fluids, each of them distinct due to their own potent smell. Limbs entangled with limbs, satin sheets sliding and gliding off muscles, bones, and his face contorted in nothing but pleasure only I was capable of bringing to him that night he gave himself to me so openly.

I want to see that in him again, but for now, another will have to do, just to quench that thirst that so very much and so very often torments me.

I feel his transformation from living to deceased draw closer to completion, feel the flesh beneath my hands and mouth tremble and clench in a pattern that is far too familiar to me. He stares past me, to one long-buried; what he sees there melts the cold glazing his eyes, and all that was dead in him breathes for one short eternity. With one final shudder, he is finished. I see the mask of his shock and horror slide back down even before I am done swallowing and tasting whatever’s left of his blood-his life essence. Now, he himself is but a withered husk, and the cleansing process can begin. I straighten his robes, then dismiss him with barely a glance as I retrieve the blade from his dull corpse.

He offers nothing aside from an empty, cold glance and kiss of death in return for my services. I’m not disappointed; the humans never are able to appreciate the gifts they too often take for granted. Only one human has been able to transcend the menial, simpleton madness I’m drowning in…

Gavin Reed…he is special, but that tiny spark, proof of the soul he has, he tries to bury, and I am content with that.

For though it is but a pale reflection of what will be, I know now how he’ll look when I kill him.

…..

If I could.

Thread to thread to thread, the web stretched from damp ceiling to wall as a gossamer shroud over the low sconce, and the flicker of the torch sent beads of light racing along the strands, dancing from one concentric polygon to another. Its creator lay in patient watch at the center, making small corrections and connections among the filaments in preparation for the next insect to heed the siren call of the torchlight.

I’m seated almost against the wall in the darkened room, the prison cell perhaps limiting my body, but not my mind. I stare up past the spider that is my only companion in this eternal darkness and depravity. I’m cradling the book-his book, his gift to me-on my lap. He should have had the sense to hide this book, for it has taken him away, but he couldn’t. Books and all they represent were the closest physical object to Gavin, this one in particular distinct from what he’d wished to impart to himself through it; knowledge of himself and the darkness in which he resided. I wonder…had he been successful in that quarter, but at far too great a cost? Still, I treasured this link to Gavin, and considered myself fortunate to be in possession of it. I wondered if Connor or Hank had witnessed this theft of the small volume in the chaos following my disappearance and untimely interruption from my work. Probably not, as the old man has been fading, slipping in the power and omniscience he purportedly wields, and the RK800 android is but a fool; an innocent puppy who will follow just about anyone in the wake of happiness.

If not for Gavin, I might have considered finally casting my lot in with the other side…with self-destruction…

My hand slides over the book in a manner obscene in its reverence and care, and I remembered the taste and texture of his smooth-yet rough skin. The leather of the cover became the soft cotton of his shirt, and I rub my fingers in slow circles over it as he once had across his own back when he was smoothening out the tension, recreating each miniature valley and mountain of his ribs and vertebrae meticulously committed to sensory memory. His fingers would caress the light curves of the binding, imagining the swell of the cock he had yet to touch. Instinctively, my hand curled around the book’s edge as it would Gavin’s waist, my thumb stretching downward, inward-

The play of light and shadow from the movement of the web broke through my reverie, and I watch the spider stalk on long, banded legs toward the newly ensnared moth struggling among the fibers. The moth’s angelic white wings thrashed against the cords, snapping one, then another, as the spider swung itself across the rings, its chelicera quivering in anticipation, drawing closer, almost within reach-

The final thread holding the moth broke just as the spider’s foreleg brushed against it, and the insect fluttered wildly away from the web past me, melting into the darkness of the hole I’d be spending the rest of my days in. Mildly disappointed, the spider began the process of reattaching and strengthening the network of fibers around the breach. Without moving from the hard, cold prison cot, I reach a hand up to the web, brushing a long finger against the spider’s large mottled abdomen with enough force to dislodge it from its perch. The spider tumbled down the back of my hand until sinking its claws into the skin between my third and fourth carpal. I focus on the glittering octet of eyes as the creature bit into my hand just beneath the knuckle. It mirrored the familiar old way of exchanging kisses and bites with Gavin, though he did not flinch at the slight sting the moment my sharp incisors pierced through the back of his hand and then neck. Both man and beast remained immobile for a long moment before I raise my hand up level to the web, and the spider crawled over my fingers back to its labyrinth.

I then bring my hand to rest over the book, relishing the slowly rising throb even as the skin began to blister around the twin blue marks I inflicted upon myself so gratuitously. I flex the hand I could have used for robbing him of his life that is so rightfully mine to have and to take over his book, forcing tiny droplets of blue blood to bead on my hand. It would paint his world and mine, defining our grey and white shades in blue and black. That would be our world, and ours alone.

He will return soon. If not-

No. There was no other possibility.

Until he returns, I will wait.

**~END~**


End file.
